Writer's Block
by Atlas Arrow
Summary: Away at college, Vanya struggles to write a letter in response to one she's recieved earlier that day from Kraken. Oneshot. Vanya/Kraken


Vanya sat in her college bedroom, chewing on the end of a pen. It was about midnight and the piece of paper was still blank. She had never been particularly good at writing, and letters were no exception. Still, she dutifully wrote Kraken at least twice a month, sometimes more. After all, **he **always wrote back. Taking the pen out of her mouth she jotted down;

_Diego, _

_Great to hear from you_-

Gritting her teeth she put the pen down. The words sounded so fake and stupidly cheerful, like Rumor was writing the letter or something. Glaring down at the six words an odd feeling started in her stomach like she was about to puke as she stared at the stupid syllables. There was nothing about it that was right. Perhaps it was that way because it was, quite simply, a lie.

Crumbling up the piece of paper she threw it at the garbage can, missing it completely. Hand-eye coordination had never been a particularly strong point with her. Her roommate, Diane, shifted slightly at the sound but didn't wake up. That was good. She didn't want to go around pissing off the normal people. Not until her second year anyway.

She stared at the second piece of paper that had, until recently, laid under the first. The pen went back into her mouth and she started to chew on it again. Finally she wrote-

_Diego,_

_ How's it going? I'm doing great over here_-

Stopping in mid-sentence she crumbled up the piece of paper and threw it towards the garbage can to rest with the first. Another lie. Angrily Vanya glared at his last letter, the one that was stretched out on her bed. She had considered tearing it up, but in the end knew that destroying it wouldn't make its words go away. Her pen went to the third piece of paper.

_Diego,_

_ I hope things are still going well with_-

This line she scribbled out vehemently before the wrinkled paper joined the other two. It was the biggest lie she'd written down yet, and she wondered how she'd managed to spit the words out onto paper. She started to wonder what was wrong with her, but she already knew the answer. Her eyes narrowed as they flickered back to his last letter, then back to the remaining sheets of paper she had.

What was wrong with her? No, wait, she already knew that answer. She'd known the answer for quite some time, before he'd written the fucking letter, before…before…

"Get it together," she muttered to herself.

In all honesty, writing letters at this hour probably wasn't the smartest thing to do. In the morning it would all look better. She would still be writing lies; she'd just be able to do it more efficiently and believably. Yes, that's what she'd do. It would all wait until morning and then everything would be fine. Yeah.

Vanya banged her head against the desk. Diane shifted again, but Vanya really didn't care. She banged her head once more, fighting back the half-furious half-sad tears that were threatening. There were only so many lies a person could tell themselves. **Nothing** would be better in the morning. The only thing that would happen was that she wouldn't be burning her light bulbs out.

Lifting her head from the table she rubbed her temples. There was so much she was feeling at that moment, so much she didn't want to be feeling, so much she wished would go away. Try as she might though, it wouldn't. It never would, she knew that much as well. Angrily she stared down at the remaining sheet of paper.

Finally, still feeling a curious mixture of fury and despair, she wrote her final letter that night;

_Diego,_

_ How the fuck could you? After everything, didn't you have any idea? An inkling would do even. I'm not the most forward person in the world, but I thought that the hints were blunt enough. Then again, do you just not think of me like that? Am I really just a sister to you? Is that all? Is that all I ever was?_

_ No. You either don't know how I feel, in which case it would be my fault, or you don't care in which case you're the biggest bastard alive. How fucking else could you be with this Jennifer? If you're just doing it for Hargreeves' disapproval, as you do too many fucking things because of these days, then you're even worse than what I've thought. _

_ Let's be really realistic here. Is she really that pretty? Maybe, but from what you said she doesn't sound too bright, and I know you like a little healthy argument now and then. You argue with me all the time and you always told me it kept you sharp. You said you'd prefer that to a five minute conversation with anyone else about anything else and I remember because it felt so good to hear that. But now I wonder; were you lying about that? If you were then I'll kill you when we get home I swear to god._

_So here's the big question; do you actually care even a damned smidgen about her? I mean, the word 'hot' with you doesn't even smack of affection and it never has. You certainly never used it to describe me, I can tell you that. You use it as a synonym to slut, a way to describe any girl you have a stand with and then don't even make a pretense of getting her phone number in the morning._

_I can deal with that, I can deal with stands. They've hurt but they've just been temporary after all. But now you've gone on, how many dates is it again, eight, with her? Are you actually going out with her? Is it actually serious? Sorry, I'm drawing the line here. This is something I can't deal with, never would've been able to deal with if it had come up before. _

_And now, now you have the absolute audacity to come and write me a fucking letter about it. Congratulations Diego, you've managed to royally piss me off. Was that what you were aiming for? Was it? Well you've hit the jackpot here. I don't care about Jennifer, or 'Jen' as you call her, which, I'll have you know, makes me sick that you do. You're not the kind to give nicknames, not for anyone. So why give her one? Is she just some conquest you want really badly? If so, then see the note about you being worse than I thought. _

_So what am I supposed to do with this fucking information? Maybe I will tell Hargreeves. It'd serve you right. Justice for torturing me and all that. Because how_-

Vanya started to lose momentum then. Tears poured from her eyes and she wiped them hastily with her left hand. As a result her handwriting became erratic large, hardly legible.

_-could you not know? Do you honestly not understand, or is this just a sick game?_

_Honestly I don't know which I'd prefer. If you don't understand now then you're not a bastard but I doubt you ever will get what I'm saying unless I tell you, and I doubt you'll say it back if you don't know. But if you do understand then you're doing this to make me upset and that fucking hurts too. Don't think it doesn't. So what am I supposed to think? Answer that Diego, just answer that._

She repressed another sob.

_I love you. I love you so goddamned much. Do you not see that, do you not understand? I've loved you since we were ten, since before even that probably. But you've never so much as glanced my way, not as a lover anyway. You've never said I love you, not even as a brother to a sister. Is this going to continue, or should I just give up now?_

_Vanya_

She finished and put the pen down with the air of one who'd just been drained. She read over her note, now letting her tears plop freely onto the paper and smudge the ink. Yes, it was everything she was feeling. It was, quite frankly, the most honest and passionate thing she'd ever written. Her English teacher would probably commend her on it; tell her it was poetical and heartfelt.

However, she could never let anyone see it, especially him. It was too impulsive, too stupid, especially since he was seeing this goddamned 'Jen'. No, she couldn't send it. It was the perfect letter, the only perfect letter that she would ever write in her entire life, and she could never send it.

She crumpled it up and was about to throw it in the trash when her arm paused. She brought it back and smoothed it out. Once more she read the words. Gently she put it into her desk. She'd keep it, keep it for a time when she had to skills to make it not so raw and honest. She would keep it for a time, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps thirty years from then, when she'd have the courage.

Gravely she got up from the desk and approached her bed, determined to go to sleep for the night. As she did she caught sight of the letter she'd received earlier that day, the letter that had started it all. She picked it up crudely, not even bothering to read it. This one she did crumple up and throw to the trash can, the only one to make it in.

Collapsing onto her bed she turned off the lamp with her foot.

"Just figure it out," she murmured before drifting off into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
